


back again.

by heizl



Series: Marvel One Shots [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Emotional Hurt, Gen, M/M, Memories, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 17:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18627559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heizl/pseuds/heizl
Summary: Maybe Bucky isn't Steve's entire world anymore, but Steve is the only thing that's ever on Bucky's mind. He's the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up, and he was the last thought he had before his entire world faded to black.Five years had passed, which was unbelievable to Bucky. It felt like five hours- five hours that Steve tormented his mind with endless, resolution-less dreams that varied and rotated and made feelings that Bucky never wanted to accept resurface. At the worst time, when he really couldn't do anything about them. Ever.Or so he thought.





	back again.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought of this story after watching Endgame on Thursday. Although I did like the ending, to an extent, it felt like Bucky wasn't totally on board with Steve's decision (based on how he looked, you could tell he was upset). This was supposed to just be a story that focused on how he felt like he was always a sidekick to Steve, but then it turned into this... much longer thing lmao
> 
> This fic has vague spoilers for Endgame, since it's an alternate ending to what happens in the movie, so if you haven't seen the movie yet, pls don't read. Go see the movie, it's pretty rad.
> 
> Tl;dr: Basically this is just an extended view on what it might've felt like for Bucky while the dusting happened, waking up after everyone was snapped back to life, and his reactions to Steve's decision + an extended ending. Mainly just Bucky feelings and emotions.
> 
> *Lyrics are from "The Way We Say Goodbye" by Circa Waves.

* * *

 

 

“Steve,” Bucky husked under his breath, panting as he fell to a knee, sheltering behind the closest bolder he could shuffle over to. He was surrounded by open plains and emptiness and the stone digging into his back was the least of his worries. See, when he was a brainwashed assassin with a one track mind, he’d never found himself with shaking hands because he wasn’t programmed to think that way, or _care_. He didn’t get worried. He wouldn’t of cared if he’d lost his life while on a mission, because his life was not only disposable to himself, but his team.

 

But now, he couldn’t stop his fingers from trembling as he struggled to keep his rifle tucked into the nook of his elbow. He was drenched in a cold sweat and he kept losing track of the amount of times his chest angrily puffed with barely decent gasps of air. Counting his breaths sounded silly in theory, but that was a trick that Steve had taught him once;

 

(“ _Buck_ ,” he’d always found Steve’s gaze unnervingly piercing, but it was only ten times more intimidating when he was solely focused on him. Watching him through a screen, giving him _all_ of his attention. He wasn’t lost in scrolling through pointless articles on his phone or making small remarks every now and then to Sam off screen. He was glued to Bucky.

 

Something they’d picked up since Bucky’s residence in Wakanda became near permanent was, firstly, realizing how wonderful modern technology could be when they’d video chat a couple times a week. They had no damn clue how it worked at first, and Shuri had to sit down and flat out explain it to both of them in person before they could even register what she was saying, because phone calls but with pictures really _did_ sound like something out of a sci-fi pulp. But they took advantage of it, and sometimes Bucky felt like he annoyed Steve with his persistence to call him even when he _was_ occupied and in the middle of doing actual business.

 

But it never seemed like he cared, so Bucky didn’t stop.

 

In the middle of Steve going on about an elaborate story Thor told him once about some eight legged horse that had _something_ to do with his brother - Bucky really couldn’t remember what the relation there was, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know - there was an explosion that came from the door across from his. His mind quickly processed that he was in no real danger.

 

He’d been assigned a temporary room close by to the science lab for the first few months he was there, as a precaution, and he’d gotten use to the occasional bang and loud noises. And while he’d become less jumpy, and he _knew_ he was okay, a part of him was always still on edge. He doubted he wouldn’t snap and try to kill again. He felt like there was no promise that he wouldn’t, didn’t matter how many times a Wakandian scientist who’d basically been inside his mind for a year would tell him he was ‘cured’. He never believed it. He still saw red. But it was more so a self contained bubbling anger that rested at the surface, instead of a pure craving for blood.

 

But that didn’t matter to his body, because it was always his body that betrayed him and acted on instinct. He was already quickly making his way out of his chair and trying to throw himself under his covers when he heard Steve repeating himself “ _Buck_ ” until Bucky was looking at him through his lashes, and caught a glimpse of what _he_ looked like; like a helpless animal, his mouth hung open and gasping for stagnant breaths.

 

“ _Listen to me. Gonna have you count out loud with me, okay?”_

 

He nodded.

 

 _“Just repeat after me.”_ )

 

And that’s what he found himself doing now. The loud boom that he’d heard this time though, was deafening. Sonorous, like a crackle of lightning and he was standing dead center in the storm. It sent trees crashing around him and, if Bucky hadn’t moved, he might’ve met one of those trees firsthand. But his legs took off before he even registered that he was moving, and he couldn’t understand why he was out of breath until he watched sweat bead down the tip of his nose.

 

Shit. Why was he sitting there—  where was _Steve_ ? They were at _war_ . He was _working_ , why the fuck was he sitting there, being selfish and acting like a scared little child who’d lost their mommy?

 

The moment he pushed himself to stand, he felt weak. And a bottomless pit formed in his stomach as he saw something that didn’t trigger a response of panic in him, but urgency. desperate need to find Steve. Because right before his eyes, as a man came dashing towards him, the words “Sargent” forming on his opening, dry lips, he vanished into flicks and shards of ash, waning in the thin air.

 

He was gone.

 

And that’s when Bucky knew this was serious. And so he moved.

 

“Steve!” Bucky swallowed down as he let his gun crash to the dirt, and he cringed. He cringed but his hands had lost feeling and everything felt hot. Like he was wearing fifty sweaters in the thick of summer.

 

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky said again and he craned his neck from side to side, spinning on his heel, calling out his name as he tried to navigate unfamiliar territory. It’s not like he enjoyed the slow life of farming completely, sitting around and feeling useless and like he knew he could be offering so much more to the world, but he didn’t enjoy this feeling that was ingrained in his system. Dread. Terror. Panic. Anxiety. It was always fight or flight, and right now in this very moment, he wanted to do both.

 

“ _Steve!_ ” He said with the last of his breath, which was the same moment he could feel his shoulders slump. It was like he’d been carrying sandbags up there, because the second he saw Steve trudging towards him, everything felt lighter and suddenly he could untense his muscles. He’d pinched his nerves from how he’d been stressing his body.

 

If Steve was okay, then everything was okay, even if his vision was starting to get blurry and he felt like he was walking on clouds.

 

You know before you drift off to sleep, but you’re desperately fighting to stay awake, because you’re not ready to sleep yet? But your eyes keep closing and everything feels real heavy and then your breathing controls itself and then everything is just dark. That’s how it felt. Except, this wasn’t like entering a normal dreamy state. He was waiting for his eyes to slowly peel open and feel Steve shaking his shoulders, see his face hovering above his and the birds flying around in the sky above them. Watch the clouds slowly passing by.

 

That never came, and things only stayed dark.

 

“ _Steve_?” it echoed in the quiet only he could hear.

 

That urgency that was possessing his every thought and burning at the back of his skull disappeared when the world around him faded to black and white, grays and silvers, to complete nothing, right before his eyes. There was nothing, nothing but peace that washed over him that he now felt like he could _relax_ , and his mind was sent to a subconscious state, where he was still thinking despite being nothing and being nowhere.

 

A light blared at him, like a stage light flickering on and it got brighter; a scene formed right before him and it reminded him of the time they put on a stage show of Romeo and Juliet in high school. Steve had gotten a job painting the sets after school, so Bucky offered to gather props and do all the heavy lifting. Sandbags, lighting, wherever he was needed. This stage that was before him starting setting up for a movie. The intensity of the white light turned down and a figure started to appear, one that bared too much familiarity to _him._  A blond with sunken in cheeks, cascaded by freckles and his nose that was red enough to be mistaken as a reindeer on a goddamn Christmas special.

 

The last thing that was on Bucky’s mind was the first thing he’d dream about, in this never ending consistent storytelling of memories he sometimes liked to pull out from the locked boxes in his memory when he needed a lift.

 

If this was death, Bucky didn’t mind it much. No more worry because Steve was looking right at him. Steve was alright, and Steve was what mattered.

 

 

* * *

 

 

So, Bucky had understood what was going on here. He had some level of consciousness still, but it was like he was a backseat driver to this whole stage show that was being put on of his life. He wasn’t the one writing the scripts, only offering mild suggestions as he’d watch the memories play themselves out, just as he’d remember them.

 

“C'mon, show me that smile. You know I love it.”

 

This was about three hours after Sarah Rogers had passed away. Bucky had hauled Steve into his room, a chair pushed under the handle of his door and a wooden pole high enough to brush his ceiling set up in the middle of his round olive colored rug. No one was home, but Bucky didn’t want them to be disturbed anyways. He wasn’t taking a chance with that.

 

They’d built themselves a grandeur pillow fort, good enough for a king. A tent made from his old bed sheets (the ones with the rockets on them, which he still used until he was sixteen) and pillows covering the floor with blankets so they could lay down and rest. There were cups spaced out everywhere, of half finished soups and cold tea.

 

He remembered this day clearly, and he recognized this as a day he’d think about a lot when he’d lay in his back-aching cot, staring up at the taupe ceiling of his troop’s noisy tent. The day of Sarah’s death seems like it would be a sad one, but that’s exactly what Bucky _didn’t_ want it to be.

 

He didn’t want them to both sit in an uncomfortable silence, wallowing in misery as they cried. They _could_ cry, but it shouldn’t feel bad. Bucky knew he used humor to cover up his feelings, more often than not. But sometimes distraction was a good thing.

 

They were tucked inside their tent, a blanket that Bucky’s grandma had knitted his family for Christmas one year draped over their shoulders. Bucky whined, before he was flicking Steve’s cheek.

 

“Stevie, come _on_.”

 

“Quit your bellyaching.” Steve’s voice was harsh to hear; broken, soft, sad. But he could see the corners of his mouth turning upwards, twitching. And his overly bloodshot eyes were narrowing, in that way they always did when he was challenging someone.

 

“I’ll shut up if you quit your sniffling.”

 

“I’m only sniffling because we,” he rubbed his nose against Bucky’s sleeve (he tried not to be grossed out), “ran out of tissues half an hour ago.”

 

“Could always use toilet paper, y’know.”

 

“I _know_ that, but you aren’t letting me _leave_.”

 

“Guess you got a fair point there.”

 

“Yes, I do.”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Okay, hold on. Promise you won’t go anywhere?”

 

“ _James_. Where the hell am I going to go? You’re all I got now.”

 

Bucky knew how that moment made him feel— he couldn’t feel it now, but it was so carved in his memory, of how his palms got clammy and he could _hear_ his heart beating, feel it on the tip of his tongue, how that made him want to hurl over and puke because he was starting to process _why_ Steve would always make him feel that way.

 

Why he’d get so protective over him when he’d fall sick again with just another common cold, or why he’d scooped him into his arms and thrown him over his shoulder and carried him to his house without giving a damn about the looks he got from any passersby.

 

There was this thing, an unspoken thing, they shared. Which was cliche as hell to say, but it was purely unspoken, and _couldn’t_ be talked about. Bucky was shit about being honest and letting go of the tough guy act to begin with.

 

There was always something… about the way Steve would lock his gaze for a second too long before he’d pull himself to stare down at the ground, or how he knew he could always rope Bucky into his back alley brawls and Bucky would never get mad at him. The only times Bucky _did_ get mad at him was when he’d put his own health in jeopardy, like that time he insisted on running to the store in the pouring rain and came back soaking wet, tracking water all over the Barnes’ newly polished linoleum.

 

He didn’t care that his socks were damp or that he nearly tripped over himself because everything was damn slippery, but about the heat that radiated from Steve’s forehead when he pressed the back of his hand against him. He scolded him for doing something that stupid to his health, but that was only the least of his worries now.

 

When Bucky’d came back from the bathroom, toilet paper balled in his fist, he found Steve passed out on his side. A comic book was opened beside him. He’d only been gone for five minutes, but he knew Steve had been awake for something short of thirty hours before that.

 

So as quietly as he could be, like a mouse, he locked his door and crept over to fall down beside Steve. His fingers were twitching, like he was grasping for something, and his darkened brows were knit, forehead creasing.

 

Whenever he’d get those wrinkles of concentration— that’s what Bucky would call them —it would remind him of school. When they’d be sitting in AP chem, one of their shared classes, and Steve would be trying to focus on reading their assigned pages.

 

He’d get those creases above his brows and always stick out his tongue a little… until Bucky would jab him in the side with the flat end of a pencil and he’d yelp, in the middle of class, causing the teacher to scold him: “ _Mr. Rogers, is there something you’d like to share with the rest of us?_ ”

 

“ _N-no ma’am,”_ he’d croak, beet red, kicking Bucky in the shin under the table. But he could see him laughing under his breath, shaking his head.

 

He wrapped that same knitted blanket around Steve’s form, tucked it around him and shifted him so he was resting on a pillow and not the hard ground. Then Steve let out a soft sigh and Bucky had to watch as he reached out to tuck his bangs back behind his ear, slowly and hesitantly and moments like _that_ made him accept that he was actually in hell. Or at least purgatory. He never was expecting to be greeted at heaven’s gates with open arms anyways.

 

 

* * *

 

 

So that’s how Bucky passed his time. A scene would set and memories that he knew all too well would slowly play out in prismacolor; vaguely grainy and audio quiet on words he couldn’t exactly make out. At least there was a new film every week, it wasn’t just the same old vision of Steve sniffling and leaving his shoulder damp.

 

Sometimes it would be them as kids, running around the playground until Steve would lose his footing and slip out from the padded wood chip ground of the jungle gym and scrape his knee on cement. Or, occasionally, and he loved this one, he’d remember a series of defiant acts they committed in what he classed as their ‘rebellious era’. When they terrorized Brooklyn and made their mark on the word and everyone in town knew who Steve and Bucky and Bucky and Steve and, collectively, SteveandBucky were.

 

Camped out in a park after hours sharing a bottle of scotch Bucky nicked from his dad’s office or sneaking around during lunch at school because they knew there was an abandoned classroom no one had used for _years,_ with white walls. A blank canvas crying to be converted. Waiting for the mural Steve had planned for it.

 

Yeah, Bucky liked those. And then it was in one of these… dreams, visions, memories, however you’d like to classify them as, that something shifted. He was suddenly out of character, and instead of watching from the sidelines, he was there. He was inside himself, seeing from his own eyes, controlling his body.

 

He knocked over a can of paint and Steve groaned under his breath, scolding him as he hurriedly tried to find something to smudge the blue up with. He never remembered that happening, but maybe this was something he’d forgotten?

 

No, it couldn’t be. Because now Steve was calling his name, (“ _Bucky_ ”) over (“ _Bucky?”_ ) and over ( _"Buck”)_ and over (“ _James!”_ ) again until he looked at him in shock.

 

“Are you ignoring me or the hell is up with you? I said we gotta clean this shit up or we’re gonna be in so much trouble. Fuck, it’s everywhere.”

 

Bucky looked at Steve, blankly. So Steve walked over, waved his hand in front of Bucky’s face and that made him jump, nearly out of his skin.

 

“Earth to Bucky. Anyone home or…?”

 

“Yeah, uh,” he looked around. Its like he could even smell the fresh paint, feel Steve watching him and the faint breeze from the open windows against his forearms. “Sorry,” he muttered, meeting his eyes as he chewed on his inner cheek. “Was just— lost in thought.”

 

“What’re you thinking so hard about?” Steve smirked, tossing a rag at him. Bucky knelt and begun to scrub the paint from the tiles, his knuckles coated in wet acrylic.

 

“Nah, it’s nothing important.”

 

“Aw. Really _that_ much of a secret?”

 

“Yes.” Bucky wiggled his brows, and Steve snorted. God, how he missed that sound. The sound of Steve’s laughter. Genuine laughter, and not just what he remembered him sounding like. And this felt _real_ , but it couldn’t have been, because he was… dead, wasn’t he? At least that’s what he’d come to think.

 

“Seriously though. You look like you just saw a ghost. You’re so pale, it’s starting to make me worried. And you know I never worry.”

 

“‘Course you don’t.”

 

“Never.”

 

“Nah, not once. You’re never worrying about me,” Bucky sucked down a breath the minute the tips of his fingers brushed against Steve’s as their hands accidentally got too close. He looked up at him and Steve was looking back at him, licking his lips once, quickly, before he pulled away and wiped the paint off his palms. “I’m fine, promise. It’s just a mix of realizing I didn’t study for the big 'it's worth ninety five percent of your final grade!' quiz this Friday in history, and other stupid bullshit.”

 

“ _What_ other stupid bullshit?”

 

“Like if we’re gonna be home in time for _Dick Tracy_ or if we’re gonna have to make another foolproof plan to bail out of detention, _again_.”

 

Steve snickered.

 

 

* * *

 

 

This made things a little less boring. Repetitive. When Bucky could, essentially, access old memories and reconfigure them. Rewrite things he wished he would’ve done differently, add parts he was curious about.

 

But, this is when it hit him; he was still controlling the situation on some level. He wasn’t trapped inside another dimension, like he’d loosely theorized. He knew that would’ve been too good to be true. Because when he’d leaned in closer to brush Steve’s hair back once when they were sitting in the living room of their first shared apartment, and then he decided to brush his lips against his, and he was only met with a blank reaction— he could only envision how he _knew_ Steve would react.

 

He knew how he felt about Steve. Had known for way too damn long, but never did a thing about it. The question that he’d always feared the answer to, would remain unsolved.

 

* * *

 

 

Or so he thought.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was a fall evening that they walked around a dimly lit park in Brooklyn, alongside the water. Boats passed and the sun was still setting, but Bucky sometimes preferred the dark. Because then no one would be watching them, not like they really were anyways. But he preferred to err on the side of caution.

 

Even in these scenarios when he didn’t have to worry about the general public, because he never remembered their faces enough for them to appear, he still felt some sense of apprehension  (rather, _knew_ he’d be worried, he still couldn’t _feel_ emotionally, even if he could physically).

 

Steve’s hands were stuffed into the pockets of his coat and his boots crunched stray leafs as they passed under a stone bridge. The water was glistening from the last few rays of the daylight and so Bucky stopped. He crossed his arms over the metal railing that separated them from getting very wet (unless Bucky tripped, which Steve always teased him about. Normally he’d tug on his collar so he wouldn’t get so close to the edge, but he didn’t this time).

 

Steve scooted up next to him, and his elbow brushed against Bucky’s, and instinctively he sucked in his lips. Some scenarios like this, he’d piece from memories they’d actually shared together, but also fiction. So it was new, entertaining.

 

“You ever thought about leaving Brooklyn?” Bucky quietly asked.

 

He knew the answer to this one. He’d asked Steve this hundreds of times before, and he always had the same response. “Don’t think I could. It’s home, y’know.”

 

“Sure. I know.”

 

“Do you ever miss Indiana?” Steve was watching him, and there was something different about that shimmer in his blues, and Bucky couldn’t place it.  

 

“Nah,” he looked back towards the water, towards the skyline. And then he noticed how much the marmalade watercolor of the sunset had faded and how visible the stars were becoming. It was easier to see the sky in all its entirety when they were growing up; still polluted by the big city, but the city was also a much smaller big. “Never felt like home to me.”

 

“Does it here?”

 

Steve was looking content. That’s how he’d describe it. Dopey smile and the tips of his ears were a faint pink and Bucky loved that look on him. He nodded. “Yeah. This is home.” He was so focused on Steve that he didn’t mind the minute of silence they shared, neither of them even wanting to say anything, until Steve’s voice broke the silence of wind and distant honks from cars.

 

“Bucky.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“No, it’s— nothing. I just wanted to look at you.”

 

Bucky didn’t know what to say, for the first time in his life. He was speechless. Completely stumped. Steve had never said something along those lines to him before, and he tried to mentally rack the catalog he had of things Steve’s said.

 

Nada. He came back with nothing. Where did that come from…? Was this just his desires harvesting and bursting at the forefront, or was there something he’d never noticed before hiding within Steve?

 

He was looking at him expectantly, and so he sputtered, spitting as he talked (which made him groan). “You just wanted to _look_ at me?”

 

“What?” Dimples were forming on Steve as his eyes darted away quickly, and he took one sidestep closer, the edge of his shoe knocking with Bucky’s. “It ain’t weird.”

 

“Not saying it is.”

 

For the first time in what felt like _forever_ , he could feel heat rising in his chest and a very familiar panic of the unknown pooling at the surface. He’d always do his best to weasel out of uncharted territory, and this was one of those situations where he was now worried about protecting himself from getting hurt. He didn’t want to act out his sick fantasies, because he knew that’s what it was.

 

Fantasy.

 

And he guessed it didn’t even matter anymore, because this is what he was stuck with, until the end of time would _really_ put him out of his misery.

 

But, then there was something that resonated in him when he felt the back of Steve’s hand nudging against his knuckles, and he could see his fingers spreading, nonchalantly gesturing to him. Despite himself, he took his hand into his own, and that’s when Steve leaned into him.

 

It all clicked for him.

 

Jesus, why did it take him a hundred years and waiting until he was finally _dead_ to realize that awkwardly laughing at your best friends extremely unfunny jokes wasn’t just normal, casual practice? Or insisting to see your best friend everyday and forcing him to sneak in your window at night because you thought it was such a good idea to read comics until four in the morning, showing up to school dead tired but laughing among yourselves because that was a little secret only you two shared, and no one else would ever know.

 

“Stevie.” He ached. Everything ached, and it made his chin quiver. Guess Steve really did have a point when he’d call him stupid on a daily basis.

 

“Yeah?” he peered at him.

 

Bucky knew he was smiling despite the inner turmoil he was facing that made him _want_ to dive straight into the water. “Nothing. Just wanted to look at you.”

 

Steve rested his head against Bucky’s shoulder and sighed, in contentment.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Ba—rn—es.”

 

“ _B—uc—ky_.”

 

Bucky was blinking but his eyes felt too dry, his skin too tight and fuck, he wanted _out_. He was drowning under ten thousand gallons of water that wouldn’t stop pouring on him and now he’s sinking to the bottom of an ocean, screaming and thrashing until the sand covers him, pins him down. He can taste it in his mouth; grimy, salty, constraining. He needs to call out something, _anything_. Reach out and find something to grasp onto, keep kicking until he can touch the surface and rise and be pulled from the water, but he can’t.

 

Until he’s blinking again, and more, and then he shoots up and he’s coughing. It’s like he’s coughing up cotton, thick in his throat but then he can breathe for the first time. He sees that sky he’s always imagined, but it’s more blinding that he’d ever thought it would be. The curtains were ripped open too early and he just wanted to lay his head back down and get five more minutes of sleep. Five minutes only.

 

Except, he hasn’t been asleep. And he’s outside, nails dug into dirt and swaying grass tickling at his wrist; he can feel that now. Someone is crouched beside him, someone he doesn’t know and she has tears in her eyes. Everyone does— there’s hundreds of people roaming about, running and dramatically gesturing to others. It’s still hard to hear.

 

Those trees, the ones he _knew_ had fallen over, unless that was a dream, stood strong. The sky is _so_ blue and the field is so green, and there is enough yelling to be mistaken for a concert, but it keeps phasing in and out of his left and right ear, respectively. He can smell the air, so fresh and grass so sweet he gets a rushing headache.

 

“He’s,” he tries to read the woman’s lips who’s yelling to someone above him. “He’s alive,” she finished saying before her hands clap over her mouth and then she’s wildly waving off in the distance.

 

His left arm is throbbing, and when he looks down, he’s met with the reflection of metal fingers, tensing and moving. His heart clenched. He _is_ alive. And the last thing he remembers is Steve. The _only_ thing he remembers is Steve.

 

 _Where_ is Steve?

 

Bucky tries to get to his feet, but then he’s met again with black, and he he finally gets those five extra minutes of sleep that he wanted.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Six in the morning and he was already fed up with the bullshit he couldn’t wrap his head around. Three hundred people were rushed into any Wakanda medical center that would take them; they’d hooked Bucky up to what seemed like every machine that’d ever existed. Heart monitor, oxygen mask, IV drip, EKG scans, x-rays, more pints of blood drawn than he could even remember.

 

Six in the morning and he was screaming at a helpless nurse because he couldn’t handle the tsunami of emotions that was overflowing from him. Still in the room they’d kept him in overnight, Sam was sitting on the edge of Bucky’s bed. He didn’t know if he was overjoyed to see Sam, or if that wanted to make him cry even harder, because then that meant everything that happened was… true. He really _had_ died, again.

 

“What the _hell_ do you mean it’s been five years?” Bucky was so disassociated from his surroundings, from himself, that he couldn’t register that _he_ was the one making those awful, choked sobbing sounds. That Sam was patiently listening to him, watching as Bucky couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands, and instead dropped them. He slumped over himself, and he wanted to curl up in a ball.

 

“The _fuck do you mean I’ve lost more fucking time_ — five years? Great— fuckin’ great. Why couldn’t you have left me dead?”

 

“No one here resurrected you, Jame—”

 

“ _Bucky_ ,” he growled.

 

“Man, I don’t know _what_ happened, but it just _did_.” That was the first time Sam had said something since Bucky went off on his tirade fifteen minutes ago.

 

It first started off as angry silent screaming over ‘where the hell is Steve, you better fucking tell me or I’ll go Winter Soldier on your ass’ to disbelief that they were alive, and then something just shut off in him when they were told everyone had been gone for the past five years.

 

In the room beside them, T’challa sat with his sister lain across his lap and their mother comforting them. See, that’s what he needed. Comfort. What he craved. Not some stupid nurse telling him he was even further in the future, even further away from his actual age, his timeline.

 

“So then what happened to everyone else?”

 

Sam nodded towards the nurse, who looked over her shoulder at a doctor, a phone clutched in his hands.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh my God.” Bucky’s words were breathless, and it was like he could hardly get them out himself. With that phone in his palm and back pressed against a wall in some empty room he’d barricaded himself in, he watched as Steve stared back at him from that screen.

 

Steve, who tormented his head for what felt like five hours, but was realistically five long, unbearable years. Steve haunted him and there were times that he yearned for the past, fucking prayed that he’d just wake up from this nightmare and everything would be reset.

 

He longed for the times when it was just him and Steve and Steve was his little secret. His special discovery that he could hide away from the outside world, because he knew it was too precious to share.

 

But, right now? Right now he didn’t care, because this was _real_ , and Bucky still teased Steve for the tears leaking down his face despite the same reaction being reciprocated in him too. “Steve.”

 

“Buck,” Steve’s voice cracked, and he was smiling, even though his nose was scrunching. “Jesus Christ, Buck, I never thought I’d—”

 

“Me either.” He wanted to reach out and touch him. Feel his skin, the bunch of his clothes under his fingertips.

 

“H-how are you?”

 

“Well,” Bucky sniffed. “I’ve been _better_.”

 

Steve laughed, but it was quiet. His lashes fluttered. “I mean— how’re you feeling, physically?”

 

“Okay. Head hurts and I was on a drip all last night, hooked up to a billion different monitors. Got me on some pretty wicked painkillers too. But, y’know. I’m alive.”

 

“Yeah. You are.”

 

“It’s so good to see you.”

 

“You too, Buck.”

 

Then Steve was looking over his shoulder, and there was another loud sniff before everything in his expression hardened and he stiffened, posture straightening. “God, I…”

 

Steve’s lips were parted, and he didn’t say anything. Bucky looked at him, expectantly, waiting. Until he finished his sentence with, “Buck, I gotta go. I can’t believe— you’re alive.”

 

“Wait, Steve.”

 

He looked off in the distance again, and his eyes didn’t shift back. “Shit, shit shit. I’ll call you again later, okay?”

 

“Steve, please. Don’t go.”

 

“I have to.”

 

“Steven.”

 

“Bucky, I-”

 

“Fuck, Steve,” he knocked his head against the wall, “don’t fucking _leave_ me.”

 

“I’m— I’m not _leaving_ you. I’m still here, Bucky.” When he could focus again and see straight, all he could see was Steve, his attention only on him. “I’m always going to be here for you. But I—”

 

It cut out, and everything went dark. The phone fell from Bucky’s fist and he scrambled to pick it up, chucking it across the room when there was a faint knock at the glass door; Bucky already knew who it was. There was this way about how Sam carried himself that was specific, the way he stood and cautiously alerted Bucky of his presence.

 

He slowly got up, creaking the door open, nodding at him. “Yeah?”

 

“Everything okay in there?”

 

Bucky’s nostrils flared. “Peachy.”

 

“No, I’m serious. I heard yelling, and then I was trying to text a few of the guys, but no one was responding.”

 

Bucky cocked his head. “I was talking to Steve, but then he just— he had to go.”

 

“Is he doing okay?”

 

Bucky glanced back at the phone on the floor. “I hope so.” He leaned against the door frame, shifting all of his weight onto one leg. “Are _you_ okay, Sam?”

 

“This a tactic of yours that you use? So you get out of talking about yourself?”

 

“Am I really that easy to see through?” he sighed.

 

“Yeah. Well, and I sort of do this thing for a living.”

 

“What, make assumptions about people and barge in on them?”

 

“Alright, one,” he held up a finger. “Not making any assumptions. And, two, you _let_ me in. So let’s just make that clear.”

 

Bucky shrugged. “Whatever.”

 

Sam glanced over his shoulder. “So… can I come in?”

 

Bucky nodded, stepping aside. There was a single chair in the room, which both of them glanced at. Neither decided to sit, so they stayed standing.

 

“Some heavy stuff you said earlier.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“With the whole ‘you should’ve left me dead’ statement. Ring a bell?”

 

“Too many, actually. Yeah, that’s a familiar phrase.”

 

“You really feel like that?”

 

Bucky scoffed, rolling his eyes. “And you haven’t?”

 

“Sure. After I lost Riley, that’s all I could think about. Part of the reason that got me off my ass and back to school to finish my bachelors in psychology.”

 

“What made you…” Bucky loosely gestured. “Not want to do it?”

 

“Knowing that I could help other people by getting through my own shit first. Plus, Riley would’ve beat my ass if he knew that’s what I was thinking about every time I’d crack open a beer at night.”

 

Bucky shifted nervously. “You two were really close, huh?”

 

“Not like you and Steve, but, yeah. He was my best man. Grew up on the same street together.”

 

Bucky chuckled. “ _Sounds_ a lot like me and Steve.”

 

“You know, we probably have a lot more in common than you think.”

 

“It’s not that I haven’t wanted to get to know you—”

 

“We’ve been busy for the past few years. I get it, man. Don’t worry about it.” Sam winked.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Three days later**

 

This was the first time he could get Steve, to himself, alone, since everything had remotely calmed down, and Bucky didn’t even care anymore if he was running at Steve like he was competing in a marathon. They’d all gotten back from Stark’s funeral not even two hours ago and Bucky needed this interaction.

 

He let himself collapse in Steve’s arms and he sighed when he felt him tense around him, hold Bucky there, his chin pressed to the side of his head. It was still weird to him sometimes, having Steve tower over him, having to look _up_ at him. He never thought he’d get use to it.

 

“Steve,” he _whimpered_. God, he was like a kicked puppy, clinging to his owner and begging for attention.

 

They were back at the Avengers headquarters, in Steve’s room and— everything was so overwhelming. Having Steve there as his rock, but being in his room that only smelled of him, with his clothes hanging up and pictures that were crooked on the walls. There were wrappers spread across the windowsill, forgotten cups everywhere, and it reminded him too much of the day his mom passed away.

 

It hurt to see Steve like that. Everyone always saw him as this shield bearing icon; a symbol for America, a true patriot. A soldier. A dancing monkey. The public didn’t see Steve as anything other than Captain America— a man with emotions. A man that could deal with grief just like anyone else.

 

His fingers latched tighter into the fabric of Steve’s jacket and he tried not to think about if he was being too reliant on Steve. He needed this, and Steve did too. Plus, he hadn’t shoved him away yet, so he must’ve been at least _somewhat_ tolerating Bucky’s need for attention.

 

Steve was carding his way through Bucky’s hair, ghosting a trail down his neck in a way that made him stomach jump, got him twitching, and that’s when he felt like he could really breathe. They didn’t talk for the rest of the night, and Bucky slept in Steve’s bed, watching him until he could finally convince himself to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**The next morning**

 

 

Any sense of ease Bucky was feeling had completely washed away, and now he was clutching Steve’s wrist as his hand clutched Bucky’s shoulder as he murmured, “Breathe.”

 

He did this to himself. Let himself live in a fantasy where he thought, because he was healthy now, him and Steve could start over fresh. Start from scratch and build a new life together, like the good old days. Except Steve didn’t just have Bucky now. He had friends. A different life. Priorities. A lover.

 

And it made Bucky’s heart spring out of control when he heard those words that’d left Steve’s mouth mere seconds ago. He _couldn’t_ control his breathing. He couldn’t control anything that was happening around him, and it was always like this. Bucky got it. He was placed on the back burner in everyone’s story. Bucky was designed to the be the sidekick. Deserved to take on the pain he endured; that’s what they call karma, right? Karma for all the pain he’d inflicted on other people? Sounded about right. Still didn’t mean it didn’t fucking hurt though.

 

“Let me just finish, Bucky.”

 

“I don’t—” he choked, but Steve cut him off, shaking his head.

 

“Listen, I watched _you_ do what you wanted, alright? Willingly be put under again so you could get help for your mind. And I didn’t try to stop you then, did I?”

 

Bucky’s teeth were chattering and every breath he took felt stale and undeserved. He didn’t respond at first until Steve repeated, “Did I?”

 

“No,” Bucky whispered.

 

“Exactly. And I _needed_ you. But— Buck, I _need_ this too. You gotta let me have it.”

 

“But I can’t,” he looked up at the ceiling. He was still in his pajamas, a cup of hot coffee on thee table beside him, and too damn tired for this conversation. “I can’t fucking do this without you.”

 

“And I couldn’t do it without you, but I managed.”

 

“You’re talking about, what? Five, six years tops?”

 

“Ten years, Bucky,” Steve stated, dull.

 

“That’s a hell lot better than seventy!”

 

Steve hung his head, exasperated. “You don’t get to control what I do with my life.”

 

“I sure do when it’s my life too.”

 

Steve stared at him. “This isn’t fucking easy for me, okay? This is one of those situations where there are losses on both sides. It’s either I live with never being able to have the future that’s tormented me my whole life, or—”

 

“Or what?” Now it was Bucky’s turn to cut him off. He jabbed a finger at him. “What about the fucking future that’s tormented _me_ my whole life, ‘cause I fucked up when I had the chance?”

 

Steve folded his arms across his chest, leaning further back into the chair. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Never mind.”

 

“No, say it.”

 

“All I was trying to say is— that’s the past, Steve. We’re in the future now.”

 

“But I can go to the past.”

 

“I need _you_ in my future.”

 

“And I can’t do that!”

 

Bucky’s jaw went slack. “I have nothing. Except you.”

 

Steve was staring at the floor. “You have Sam. T’Challa. Wanda.”

 

“They aren’t _you_.”

 

“I can’t stay.”

 

Bucky pawed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Thought you were with me, ‘til the end of the line.”

 

“I’ll be back. I _told_ you the plan. Meet you right back here, seventeen hundred hours on a Tuesday in twenty twenty three. And then I’m gonna give him the shield.”

 

Bucky _tried_ not to huff. But his trying was a half-assed job, and he did it anyways. “And then what? I get, one, two more years with you?”

 

“Is that not better than nothing?”

 

“Steve, I’m okay now. I— we could start over. Everything could be different.”

 

Steve looked at him, and the pain in his face was visible. Pain of a man that’s been holding everything in for the past eighty years. “You’re asking me to pick between the love of my life, and you.”

 

But Bucky knew that pain, and so he knocked down that dam, headfirst. He let it all come out as he tried to put his fist in his mouth before it was too late. “You’re the goddamn love of my life, Steve.” It felt so foreign to say that he almost didn’t realize what he _did_ say.

 

“You were too.”

 

And the response he got was a lot less foreign and more so like… razors being dragged across his skin. It stung. Burnt, but felt good at the same time. Knowing that Steve does, did, feel the same way about him.

 

“But I need this, Buck.”

 

Bucky sucked in his lips. He knew there was no point arguing with a hothead. Steve was too stubborn to ever back down from something he really wanted. Once he got an idea in his head, he went for it. And that was it. “Fine. You do what you need to do. I’m not stopping you.”

 

Steve let out a huff of air he’d been keeping in. He rubbed his hands together before he was looking up at Bucky, elbows rested against his knees. “You know, when I’d finally found you, that’s all I could think about. Those feelings I’d shoved away for so long, the skeletons I kept tucked away in my closet. And, even though you tried to kill me, more than twice, I thought it could work.”

 

“It can work,” Bucky repeated for what felt like the thousandth time that day. “We can make it work.”

 

Which Steve only repeated, “I can’t not at least try this.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Two years later**

 

_“Take this plane, delay it_

_I was only waiting for you, you know_

_I stayed in here for ages and felt the sunlight fading_

_On you, you know_

_But it's the way we say goodbye, it kills me now_

_And I won't look back in time 'cause, darling, it's just the way we say goodbye_

_We'll stay outside the cages_

_And read all the last pages_

_And I miss you_

_God, I miss you_

_Love, I miss you_

_You know I do,”_

 

Bucky was jostled from his near entrance to the sleep-like state he’d been trying to get to for the past few hours. But when he ripped out his earbuds and turned to see Steve looking back at him, he slowly sighed in relief.

 

“Jesus, you scared me.”

 

“Sorry,” Steve softly chuckled.

 

Things were a lot different now. It’d been two years since Steve made his decision to retire from the Avengers, six months since Bucky proposed they move in together (because he was too worried about Steve being somewhere alone instead, since he didn’t get out much anymore now), and about a week since Bucky’d left his room.

 

He still had those days when all he could do was listen to his eight hour playlist of angsty pop songs on loop until he’d either punch the wall out of frustration or finally fall asleep, because all he could think about was— the Avengers weren’t really a thing anymore. Since Sam had taken the role of Captain America and the team was now full of kids and talking rodents, Bucky wasn’t as interested in running around doing errands for the president (it was always “get rid of this alien” and “don’t blow up this building Bucky, or we’re going to put you under house arrest”, which luckily they never found out he _did_ indeed blow up the building, secretly).

 

He still thought about Steve, far too much. Steve was tired now. He liked staying at home and listening to his records (the ones he’d bought, not the grunge shit Bucky’d slowly acquired from garage sales, and some of Stark’s own that Pepper let him borrow). He enjoyed the Sunday papers and hot cereal every morning.

 

It was habit now that Bucky would check on Steve every night before he went to lay down in his own bed, tried to do all the grocery shopping for them and always wrote notes to Steve in the morning. Yeah, he’d scold him for acting too much like his caretaker, but the man was a hundred. He still _acted_ like he was thirty, but his body thought otherwise.

 

“What’re you doing up? It’s late.”

 

“Are you telling me I have a bedtime now, Buck?”

 

Bucky shook his head, snickering. “No.”

 

“Good. ‘cause I have a gift for you.”

 

“Gift? The hell you buying me things for, Steve?”

 

“Didn’t buy it for you. Something I’ve been keeping for years.”

 

“Uh, okay,” Bucky looked at him, dumbfounded. “What’s it?”

 

And then, that’s when he felt his eyes widen far too much and he actually choked on his saliva, patting himself on the chest until he coughed. “Is that—”

 

A vile, full of red liquids, was pinched between his two fingers. “The last batch of Pym particles.”

 

“I thought you used the last one, when you went back to Peggy.”

 

“That’s what I said. But,” he shook the vile around until he handed it with Bucky. He carefully laid it flat in his palm, staring at the jar in bewilderment. “I was always keeping this one handy, just in case.” His fingers brushed over his shoulder, and when Bucky looked at Steve, there was something mischievous in his eyes that he hadn’t seen since they were teenagers, exploring abandoned buildings late at night.

 

“If you really want to try, I’m telling you, it’s not gonna be easy.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“We could make it though. Just,” he took a long breath. “Tell me not to be so stupid.”

 

“That’s impossible.”

 

“Maybe. But I usually listen to you.”

 

“Yeah. Keyword there being usually, Stevie.”

 

Steve softly laughed. “I’ll meet you there?”

 

“Sounds like a deal Stevie,” but then Bucky shook his head, setting the vile down. “No, no, wait. What are you going to do here?”

 

“I’m at the end of my ropes, Buck,” there was a crinkle to Steve’s eye. “I can feel it. It’s now or never, pal. You better take this chance or you’re about to get a black eye from a hundred and one year old man.”

 

“Okay, alright,” Bucky raised his hands in defeat. “You’ll be okay here though?”

 

“I’ll be fine, Buck. I’ll be with you.” Steve smiled. “Don’t waste this opportunity.”

 

* * *

 

 

**November 11th, 1942**

 

 

“Steve,” Bucky swung open the door to their apartment, and sure enough Steve, _his_ Steve, was still sitting there on their couch. Sketchbook on his lap. Mere minutes before he was set to go to the movies, and mere hours before Bucky was to be shipped out to England. He’d already had his coat on, that coat he missed so dearly; he knew every off stitch and stain on that damn thing, and he missed how it felt against his touch.

 

Before Bucky’d gotten there, he’d cut his hair. Rather Steve had told him to sit down, convinced him to let him shave it off and give him a trim— one of the most terrifying experiences of his life, he wouldn’t lie. That serum did wonders to his body, but it couldn’t reverse all the effects of aging. He swore Steve almost cut his fucking ear off. He would’ve if he hadn’t made such a ruckus and screamed at him.

 

He felt like himself again as he stood there in their musty apartment that was the size of a shoe box. A single bedroom and draft so bad they’d have to share a bed in the winter. He stood there in his uniform (that he’d had to steal from his other self, who was currently passed out in a back alley way, somewhere, _very_ far away), which was a little tight, but he didn’t mind. Didn’t mind it one bit.

 

It was surreal being back in the past. Shortly before he’d left, he’d gotten a replacement prosthetic, made from silicone so no one would think twice about him _not_ having two flesh arms. He’d have to explain it to Steve at some point, but if that’s what he’d have to do to have this life back again, then that was fine.

 

“Buck?” Steve absentmindedly looked up at him, lips pursing. “Thought you said you were gonna be gone all da—”

 

Bucky slammed the door behind himself and rushed over to cup Steve’s jaw with both his hands, knee pressed beside Steve’s thigh, cutting him off before he could get anything else out. His lips felt soft, and just right when they were pressed against his. Everything about this just felt right. Steve’s arms wrapped around his neck, tugging him closer, and Steve didn’t want to let go of him either.

 

"What're you," he hushed in between breaths, " _doing_ _?"_

 

"What do you think I'm doin', Stevie?" he said against his skin.

 

"Seems like you're," he looked at him, "kissing me."

 

"Always knew you were smart. What a damn genius you are."

 

"S'why I did so much better than you in school— Buck,  _why_ are you kissing me?"

 

"You don't want me to?"

 

"Didn't say that," Steve said as he looped a finger through Bucky's belt loop. Bucky laughed to himself, softly, as he brushed against the top of his head, ruffling through his blond strands before resting his hand over his ear.

 

 

“Steve, stay home with me, okay? We’re gonna stay home for the day and uh, think we still got some Pabst in the fridge. How’s that sound? Drinking away the night and listening to the game, hm?”

 

“ _What_?”

 

Bucky snorted, resting his forehead against his, lowering his hand. “You and me, we got plans for tonight. Okay?”

 

“Okay Bucky.”

 

“Okay,” he nodded, licking over his own dry lips before he grabbed Steve’s chin and kissed him again. “You gonna be safe when I’m gone?”

 

“Yes, Buck. You don’t gotta worry about me so much.”

 

“Actually, I do. I really do.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes.

 

“Hey,” he kissed his cheek, waiting for Steve to look at him again. “You promise me you won’t do anything stupid?”

 

“Promise.”

 

“Good. ‘cause I need you, Steve. More than you think I do.”

 

“I need you too, Bucky. More than _you_ think I do.”

 

" _Please_ don't enlist again. I'm begging you."

 

"Okay."

 

"I'll get you your own little red wagon, okay?"

 

Steve smiled against his lips. "Gee,  _thanks._ "

 

"Anytime," and then he was back to just holding Steve in place, taking in the sight of him, working his lips and savoring the moments.

 

* * *

 

 

**May 26th 1945**

 

Taking that first step off the train and onto the platform back in Brooklyn was like a fevered dream to Bucky. The sort of thing he’d fantasize about even though he knew it was unfathomable. But his boot touched ground and then he was making his way through the crowds piled on the platforms. He’d written a postcard a month prior to his mother, grinning like a foolish idiot at the words ‘I’m coming home’ that he’d smudged whilst writing.

 

And there they were. His sister with both her hands cupped to her mouth, his mother hunched over as she bellowed out sobs, and running towards him, the blond that he dropped his bags for, in favor to wrap his arms around his slender waist, pulling him halfway off the ground before setting him back down.

 

“You’re here,” Steve muttered. _His_ Steve. That short kid that was specially his and no one else’s. His little secret.

 

“Bet your ass I am.”

 

“ _James_ ,” his mother scolded, but looking over Steve’s shoulder, he could see she was nothing but grins as she shimmied around them to wrap her arms around his back, Rebecca following suit.

 

This all felt so right. His _family_ surrounding him. Going through the hell of war _again_ wasn’t easy, but it was a lot easier a second time than the first. Especially when he had a complete cheat sheet on what _not_ to do.

 

Steve rested his chin on his shoulder and he quietly whispered to him, only for him to hear, “I know I should’ve said this earlier, and I’m sorry, but I want to say it now, that I—  I love you, Bucky.”

 

“The timings perfect, Steve,” all he wanted was to lean forward and crash his mouth against Steve’s, but that could wait. He could hold on a few more hours to have this for the rest of his life. “Really. I love you too. So much.”

 

“I’m so glad you’re home.”

 

“Me too.”

 

His mom added, “Shall we go out for lunch?”

“Oh! We could go to that diner near our home,” Rebecca excitedly exclaimed, “I just got a new dress I’ve been dying to wear.”

 

“Sounds great.” Bucky smiled, throwing his arm around Steve’s shoulders, turning to his sister. “So, Bec, what’ve you been up to? You didn’t touch any of my stuff, did you?”

 

“Actually, we turned your old room into a home office.”

 

“Home office? Office for _what_?”

 

“Well, dad got a new hobby, in glassmaking.”

 

“Glassmaking?” He looked at Steve. “Did you know about this?”

 

Steve shrugged, but then he looked away, sucking in his cheeks.

 

Bucky’s forehead creased. “What’s that look for…?”

 

Steve cracked under himself, snickering as he side-eyed Rebecca. “She just doesn’t want to tell you that she got a new boyfriend, who’s been living at home.”

 

“You—  he _what_?”

 

“We’ll talk about this at lunch, James. So glad to have you back,” his mom pinched his cheek, pushing him to keep walking forward with her handbag.

 

* * *

 


End file.
